by Rita Herron
"Where's your car?"
He gestured down the street toward the Harley. "I'm on my bike."
Relief quickly surged through her, evident in the sharp release of a shaky breath. Without thinking about the consequences, he moved to her, took her in his arms, and offered her comfort.
"Thanks, Harry." Her sweet scent bathed his senses, sending a tingle down his spine. "I hate all these people invading my privacy."
She would hate him, too.
"You don't have any idea why a PI would be snooping around, do you?"
She stiffened, then shook her head no. He tightened his arms around her, knowing her fear was real, but that she was also harboring secrets.
Things just got more curious by the minute. Why would a PI who worked for the mob be interested in Abby Jensen?
Chapter 10
The Allure of the Forbidden
"Let's go inside," Hunter whispered.
Trying desperately to ignore his body's response to Abby's curves pressed against him, he forced himself to pull away slightly. She nodded and let him guide her back into the kitchen. Her satiny hair tickled his chin, her sweet fragrance made sweat break out on his brow, and the tender way she'd clutched the front of his shirt triggered his protective male instincts.
He'd read all about the forbidden fruit in her book and realized that he was experiencing the phenomenon every time he touched her. But the want and desire that surged through him was something he couldn't act on.
And didn't want to.
Did he?
Lying to someone to get a story had become second nature, so much that he barely questioned the ethics of it anymore. But he had been raised in the South, and sleeping with a woman for information was out of the question. Especially when he wanted the information to impugn her character.
No, having sex with Abby Jensen was forbidden. Not that she'd offered...
"Harry?"
He closed his eyes and grimaced, absentmindedly stroking her hair. The intoxicating scent of her shampoo mingled with her feminine scent, nearly driving him wild. God, he hated that name. Why hadn't he thought of something better in the first place?
"I'm okay." She gently pushed at his arm. "You can let me go now."
He chuckled and slowly released her, missing the warmth of her body against his. "Sorry. Guess I got carried away with how good you feel."
She backed away completely then, her big eyes cautious. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be forward. I'm m-married, remember?"
"Yes, I remember." But happily married? He didn't think so. She stumbled over the word as if it pained her. And where was her loving groom?
Perhaps he had hired Brown to dig up some dirt on Abby, evidence of betrayal for a divorce settlement? If so, her ruse with him would only add fuel to the flame.
"I guess that pervert out there upset me."
Hunter folded his arms, his gaze tracking her long, slender fingers as she wove them through the tresses of her tangled hair to smooth out the ends. His hands ached to take over the task. "Do you want me to call the police and report him?"
"No." Her reply came too quickly.
"Are you sure? You could arrest him for trespassing. Or harassment."
"Uh... no." She averted her eyes, fidgeting with the teacups on the counter, her hands trembling.
"So you can't think of any reason why a PI would be interested in you?"
"No. None at all." Panic momentarily flashed on her face. "I think I'll make some tea to relax me. Would you like some?"
He shook his head, allowing her a brief reprieve. Her jerky movements alarmed him as she filled a kettle with water, set it on the stove, and flicked on the burner. A bag of Reese's peanut butter cups lay open, spilling onto the counter, the only sign of disorder in the room. The last time he'd looked in her house, it had appeared to have been ransacked. Now the place seemed cozy, homey, as if she'd settled in. The pale yellow kitchen had accents of blue in the plates she'd hung on the wall and the placemats on the table. Thick sturdy blue-and-yellow ceramic mugs hung from a wooden dowel, while dainty teapots in various colors occupied a white shelf over the pine table.
Prim little teapots for a not very prim lady.
Who was running scared.
"My grandmother always played tea party with me and my sisters when we were little," she offered, obviously realizing he'd been studying them. A small shrug lifted her shoulders as if the story embarrassed her. "Those memories were the best part of my childhood."
He did not want to know about her sad childhood, or her grandmother, or the reason she collected teapots. Those personal things distracted him, evoked sympathetic feelings that would muddy the waters of his story. Just like the warmth of her body had evoked primal urges that held the same danger.
"Brown said he wanted to talk to you. Do you think he might know something about your husband?"
"What?" Her voice broke.
"You said you weren't sure where he is. I wondered if Brown does."
"I don't know." Abby shrugged and leaned against the counter. "Maybe he wanted to ask about my underwear."
Her attempt at humor failed.
"He did seem fascinated by it."
She pulled at a loose thread on the blue pot holder. "I just hope he leaves me alone." The newspaper lay on the counter, and she picked it up, crumbled it into a ball, then stuffed it in the trash. "Just like I wish that awful Hunter Stone who keeps writing derogatory things about me would leave me alone."
Hunter gritted his teeth.
"It doesn't matter what I do; if I don't give them some dirt on me, they'll go through my garbage and invent some."
He flinched. Unfortunately, she was right. And judging from the way she was acting, they weren't going to have to invent anything. They would find plenty of real dirt.
* * *
Abby mentally chastised herself for her display of emotion.
And for the erotic thoughts she'd let surface while Harry Henderson had held her. Not only had her body thrummed with desire and her heart pounded with excitement, but she had felt safe.
Something she hadn't felt in a long time. Not in the past few days anyway. Not even when she'd been with Lenny.
She couldn't lean on this man, though.
Hadn't she learned she had to fend for herself when her father went to prison?
Besides, Harry was an actor, not a friend. He'd come to her now to play her husband only because her real husband—no, the man she'd thought she'd married—had deserted her. And everyone still believed she was happily married.
Therefore, Harry Henderson was a piece of fruit dangling from the forbidden tree.
She couldn't allow her defenses to slip and reveal the truth about the scandalous turmoil in her life. Not just yet. If she even acted interested in him, he'd think she was an adulteress. And if that Hunter Stone got so much as a hint of such a rumor... She shuddered at the thought.
She'd devoted a full chapter to the allure of the forbidden fruit, but she'd never experienced the powerful and almost hypnotic draw of it before. Because Abigail Jensen had been the good girl who always played by the rules and minded her manners. The sister and daughter who'd taken care of everyone else.
At least she used to be.
But temptation had never rolled in with dark, mesmerizing eyes, broad shoulders, and a macho attitude, acting like a real-life hero—until now, until Harry.
Still, she had to guard her secrets until Lenny resurfaced. Then she could end the lies. A shiver rippled through her, reminding her of how violated she'd felt when she'd seen that PI snooping through her garbage, her underwear wrapped around his hands.
He rubbed her arms. "You're shivering. Are you cold?"
She frowned. He was watching her, his blue eyes hooded, his powerful presence as unsettling sexually as it had been comforting a few minutes earlier.
"Residual shock waves, I suppose."
"Tell me what I can do to help."
Hold me. Touch me. Make the pain go
away.
She closed her eyes and inhaled his musky scent. Leather. Sex. Manly scents that pulled at her womb.
He gently removed her glasses and laid them on the counter. "Don't worry about that moron, Abby. I'll take care of him if he comes back."
Abby froze as reality intervened. Her book. The PI. Lenny.
Harry.
He was an actor playing a part, and she was a fool falling into his fickle hands.
She opened her eyes and saw the sultry invitation in his.
Her stomach knotted. How would a woman ever know the truth about a man who acted for a living? How would she recognize real desire from a one-man show? He probably seduced women all day long and bragged to his friends about it.
And she had worked too long and hard to earn her reputation to allow herself to be fooled by another man.
Especially one she was paying to pretend to be her husband.
"The only thing you can do for me is to play Lenny." She forced a coolness to her voice that she didn't feel. "And keep what we're doing confidential so no one finds out."
* * *
Hunter had played cards too many times in his life not to know when he'd lost a hand. He folded gracefully, though heat thrummed through his body like a brushfire out of control. "All right. I'll do my job." He lowered his hand, brushing her hip and thigh with the barest of touches before he jammed it in his pocket. The fact that she looked all sexy in a pair of white shorts and that slinky tank top didn't help. Her breasts might not be large, but they certainly had felt heavenly against him. "But if you need to talk sometime, I'll be glad to listen."
A slow smile played along the seam of her lips. "I thought I was the therapist."
He willed his body in check, but inhaled and nuzzled his cheek against her hair. "I wasn't offering therapy, sweetheart."
Her smile faded, the tension between them palpable. "Then I can't accept anything."
Regret laced her voice. Had her husband hurt her so badly? "So when do we start?"
The teakettle whistled, and she jumped. "Excuse me?"
"When do we make our next appearance?"
She removed the kettle and set it on the stove.
"I'm still trying to convince my publicist to call off the tour." Her eyes flickered away from him. "If she won't bend, we start this week." She removed a tea bag from the cabinet. No exotic flavor, just Earl Grey. "She and I need to iron out the details of the schedule. I want to make sure I still have time to see a few of my patients. Just give me your number, and I'll fax you the itinerary."
He hesitated, but scribbled his number on a pad. "Is there anything I should know before we go on air?"
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Details on how we met. Our relationship." He studied her. "Things that might come up in an interview."
She arched a brow.
"I wouldn't want to screw up in front of the camera."
She hesitated, her shoulders stiffening as if she might run any second. "I guess you're right. We should get our story straight."
He noticed a bottle of wine on the counter and gestured toward it. "Maybe we can have a drink while we talk. You seem awfully tense."
"I guess it might relax me." The tea forgotten, she removed two wineglasses from the tray on her counter, and he followed her into the den. So far, so good.
By the end of the night, maybe she would reveal the trouble surrounding her husband. And why she didn't want anyone to know he was missing.
* * *
Abby played a soft jazz CD in the background, hoping the music would calm her raging nerves and drown out the quaver of her voice as she described the beginning of her relationship with Lenny. The first part, the truth poured out easily, although it hurt to think how he'd deceived her.
"Lenny and I actually met in Chattanooga," she said softly. "I visited the psychiatric hospital there to speak. Afterward, I went sight-seeing at the Chattanooga Choo-choo...." She hesitated and he nodded encouragement.
"It's nice. I've been there."
She smiled, remembering her first encounter with Lenny. "The weather was bad that day. Storm clouds opened up about the time I arrived and I got drenched. But I'd already spoken at the college, so I didn't care. It felt good to be in the mountains and out of the office for a day."
He smiled as if he could relate.
"I was walking along the train when I noticed this man taking pictures of me."
"Really?"
"Yes." Heat crept up her neck. "He told me he had his own photography business, that he entered his work in shows, and suggested I'd make a good subject."
"You didn't think it was a line?"
She laughed. "Actually I did at first. But since we were in a public place and all he suggested was a few poses in front of the train station, I didn't see any harm."
What a fool. She'd been so flattered.
"Did you pose for him later, too?"
Abby's fingers tightened around her glass. She'd never told anyone about her honeymoon. "Why do you ask?"
"He was a photographer, seems natural. Especially since you were married."
Abby didn't intend to discuss her private secrets. "I think you know enough to play the part, Harry."
He sipped his wine, his gaze never leaving her, as if he knew he'd breached the line, but he would continue to push until he severed it. "No, Abby," he said softly. "I don't know anything yet. How long did you date before you married?"
Not long enough. "About three months."
"Where did he propose?"
She envisioned the day in her mind as if it were yesterday, only now she heard the falseness in his words. "He rented a boat on Lake Lanier and we took a midnight ride."
"Romantic guy."
She bit her lip. "Yes, he seemed to be." Only it had all been an act.
"Did we—I mean, did you get married in a church?"
She shook her head, pain knifing through her.
"Did your families attend?"
"We sort of eloped." She'd missed her sisters and Granny Pearl that day. But Lenny had been in such a rush they hadn't had time to plan things properly. Now she understood his reasons.
"How about the honeymoon?"
"I'm not telling you the details of my honeymoon, Harry."
"Did you take a cruise? Fly to Europe? Go for a beach getaway?"
She traced a finger around the stem of her glass. "We rented a cottage in the mountains. It was... very secluded." And a flop of a night. Literally.
Anger warred with mortification. Any normal, sane woman would have recognized they had a problem then. But no, she'd been understanding. She had even tried to smooth over the awkward moment and make him feel better.
"I see." His husky voice wrapped around her again, intense.
"I suppose we made love before the wedding." He chuckled. "I mean you and your husband made love before the wedding."
A soft gasp escaped Abby. "I don't think anyone will ask us that."
"Your book is all about sex. People will expect you to be open and honest."
Honest? No, they really didn't want to hear the truth. "But people won't ask that."
"They will ask, Abby. You need to be prepared."
She stood, poured them both another glass of wine, and paced across the room. "That doesn't mean I have to answer them."
"So you want me to ad lib?"
Abby nodded. "Yes, that's fine."
"Great." He set down his drink, closed the distance between them, and brushed a kiss across her cheek. "Then I'll tell them we had the hottest, rawest, wildest sex two people could have."
"Because if we did make love, Abby," he continued in a low voice, causing a thousand delicious sensations to ripple through her as he caressed her cheek with blunt fingers, "that's exactly how it would be."
Chapter 11
The Flirting Game
The minute Hunter murmured the sentiment, he regretted it. Abby's eyes flickered with unease, and something else that shook him to t
he core—desire.
For a brief second, she'd thought about what he'd said and it had turned her on.
Damn, he did not want to be attracted to this woman. And he sure as hell didn't want to get involved with her.
Except to get his story.
Why didn't she put those little glasses back on and throw him out the door?
"You're very seductive, Harry. You have the voice of a lover," Abby said in a measured tone. Her reluctance made him want to reach out and reassure her. Made him want to cross the line he'd drawn for himself. "But let's keep our relationship professional."
Exactly what he wanted. Didn't he? "Sure. I was simply practicing my part."
"Oh." Embarrassment tinged her voice. "I... Of course."
Now he felt like a heel.
"It's all right to flirt, Abby. Even if you are married."
"No, it's not." That haunted look returned to her eyes. "I took—take my vows seriously."
He arched a brow, his instincts roaring at her slip of the tongue.
Releasing a troubled sigh, she dropped her head forward and rubbed at her neck, her soft breath filling the darkness. Her hair fell across her face in a seductive curtain. The moonlight from the window outlined the delicate column of her neck, the shadows of fatigue evident in her posture. "I'm really tired. Maybe you should go."
He nodded, his throat tight. "You sure you're okay alone? You're not anxious about that PI coming back?"
Her voice was quiet when she spoke. "Do you think he will?"
"Probably not tonight." Brown wouldn't give up, though. He would show up again; Hunter was sure of it. "I could stay here, if you'd feel better. On your sofa, I mean."
A sharp little laugh escaped her. "No, thanks, Harry. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."
Only she didn't know what she was up against: Mo Jo Brown.
And him.
And the other masses of reporters who would dog her once they sensed her marriage had gone awry. It seemed obvious, now that he thought about it. Pictures of her sisters sat on a small sofa table, as well as a photo of an older lady whom he guessed to be her grandmother. But there were no pictures of her husband anywhere. No wedding photo on the wall. No picture of the boat where he'd proposed, or the cottage they'd rented in the mountains for their honeymoon. No young lovers embraced.
